


feedback loop

by silent_h



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person, Self Loathing, Some Swearing, how do i tag for the disaster that is their relationship, no capitalisation we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silent_h/pseuds/silent_h
Summary: (season 2 episode 2 spoilers)the person you have called is not available. please try again.





	feedback loop

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know if there's anything i need to tag for?? but like. eve's head is not a great place to be in right now.

“thought i was going to miss you again,” villanelle says. “you are not very good at answering your phone, eve polastri.”

“it’s _four am_ , you dick,” you hiss, before you remember who you’re talking to.

you’re at home. you’re at _home_ and she somehow has your fucking mobile number and niko’s asleep upstairs (asleep where you should be, but it hadn’t taken long for the excitement of the day to crash, and you’d ended up curled up shaking on the sofa again). you’re meant to be drawing a line between work and home, meant to stop being such a shitty wife, meant to stop revelling in the destruction that follows in your wake.

you’re not meant to be on the phone with an _assassin_ , phone pressed so close up against your ear that it almost hurts.

(you’re not meant to be so _relieved_ at hearing her voice that you relax for the first time in days)

“are you, uh,” you flounder, looking for words. “are you okay?” you wince, running a hand through your hair.

god, what a stupid thing to say.

“no,” villanelle says, slowly, as if she’s talking to a child, “you stabbed me, and it fucking hurts.”

you inhale. “i’m sorry,” you say.

villanelle laughs; you bite your lip until it hurts. “no,” she says, sounding amused, “you’re not.”

and you—

you’re—

you _have_ to be. normal people don’t stab other people and walk away without remorse, and you are trying so fucking hard to be normal.

you’re off balance; getting less and less sleep every night, waking up trembling every time. you can’t remember the last time you finished a plate of food without throwing it back up, or drank something non alcoholic.

and you’re scaring niko again. he doesn’t ask you what your nightmares are about, doesn’t make you talk about anything that you don’t want to. he just. he just wants to know what’s wrong. he just wants to help, because for some godforsaken reason he doesn’t see the darkness that clings to every part of you like mould.

(the thing is: they’re not nightmares

you, and the way the knife hadn’t stuttered as it went in, and you don’t have a word for the _rush_ that spans your entire body as it slides in and in and in again and again and again and your hands are covered in blood, are wet and warm and dripping

 _i think about how you feel when you kill someone_ and this is it this is it and it is breathtaking it is holding someone’s beating heart in your hands and you see it every time you close your eyes and you _understand_ and you hate it you hate yourself you are what’s wrong you have always been what’s wrong)

“i’m—” you can’t. you can’t find it in yourself to try and lie again. not when you’re talking to the one other person who understands _why_. “i’m happy that i didn’t kill you,” you say, instead.

(no, not happy. happy’s too small a word for something so intense. it felt like you’d breathed in as the knife went in, and you didn’t breathe out again until you saw the apple clutched in a limp hand

she did _something_ to you, shined a light on all the parts of yourself that you’ve spent so long desperately trying to hide, and you _need_ her

you’re trying so hard to be normal and it’s going to kill someone (and that someone might even be you) and you need her to tell you that it’s okay to stop pretending)

she laughs again. with teeth, you imagine.

(sometimes, you imagine those teeth doing lots of things)

“i know,” she says, softly, almost humming. “baby, i know.”

and you know, somehow, that she forgives you. or, no, that she never thought that there was anything to forgive in the first place. you stabbed her and she killed bill and neither of those matter as much as they really should, do they?

(she will never stop killing people and there is a very small (big, too big) part of you that wants to hurt her again and again and again that wants her to hurt you again and again and again and it will never ever matter)

there’s a muffled sound of movement; she inhales sharply.

“are you—?”

“i told you, eve. it hurts.” she still doesn’t sound angry.

“you sound...better though? than before?”

“the joys of antibiotics,” she says, almost gleefully. her accent thickens, “that, and not being held prisoner by a disgusting man.”

you still don’t know exactly what happened there but _something_ did, something _bad_ , and she called you. she asked _you_ for help.

“i’m sorry,” you say, in a rush. “i’m so sorry that i didn’t come for you quickly enough.”

she’s quiet then, and you think of the desperation in her voice as she screamed your name down the line. it’s irrational but. you should’ve been there. somehow. you should have saved her.

and then she’s laughing so hard that she _must_ be pulling a stitch, and you must have missed something, because you don’t—

oh.

_oh._

it takes you a moment, and then your face starts to warm.

“ _piss off_ ,” you huff, and you’re blushing furiously, and she’s such a fucking asshole, and thank _god_ she can’t see you.

“you’re so _easy_ , eve.”

“yeah, because you have the sense of humour of a twelve year old boy.”

“better tits than one, though,” and she’s the actual fucking worst, and you know there’s no way you can answer that without her asking if you’ve been looking at them, and you just can’t even _begin_ to get into _that_ right now.

(yes okay so maybe you are not as morally sound as you thought _and_ not as straight as you thought, but you can only handle having a breakdown over _one_ of those revelations at a time, thank you very much)

“yours are nice, too,” she adds, after a beat. she sounds very sincere. “you have very nice tits, eve polastri.”

“ _jesus christ_ ,” and she laughs and laughs and laughs; you start to laugh too.

“you are extraordinary,” she murmurs, and you choke on your laughter, sure you’ve misheard. “i have to go now,” she says, before you can ask her what she means. “i will see you later.”

the call disconnects too quickly for you to say goodbye. you think that that was probably the point.

**Author's Note:**

> the bbc owes me actual physical money for making me watch _two_ missed encounters


End file.
